Our nation is being led astray by ungodly judges, mayors and

Host: The sunset bled into the city’s horizon, staining the glass towers with rusted gold and crimson sorrow. The wind carried the distant wail of sirens — a melancholy hymn to a world caught between faith and power. A rooftop café, high above the streets, sat half-empty, its tables glowing under the last threads of daylight.

Jack leaned against the railing, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his grey eyes reflecting the fading skyline. Jeeny sat near him, a newspaper folded on her lap, her hair moving in the breeze, eyes full of something between anger and hope.

Jack: “David Wilkerson said it like a prophecy. ‘Our nation is being led astray by ungodly judges, mayors, and governors, who are given to change, defying the Constitution and substituting their own wicked agendas.’ Sounds dramatic. But maybe he was just seeing the world for what it is.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Or maybe he was seeing it for what it could still be — if people remembered what righteousness means.”

Host: The city lights flickered alive below them — like nervous stars, one by one. Traffic horns and neon signs pulsed beneath the night’s breath, a chaotic heartbeat of civilization. Jack exhaled smoke, slow and tired, as if it carried his doubts with it.

Jack: “You really think righteousness has a place in politics anymore? Power doesn’t bend to prayer, Jeeny. It bends to profit.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the moment people stop believing in goodness, they hand everything over to corruption. Wilkerson wasn’t warning about governments — he was warning about hearts.”

Host: Her voice cut through the air like a violin in a crowded station — soft, trembling, but impossible to ignore. Jack turned, the city’s glow reflecting off his face, half shadow, half light.

Jack: “He talked about ungodly leaders. But who decides what godliness means? Every generation rewrites its morality. Maybe the change he condemned is just evolution.”

Jeeny: “Evolution doesn’t mean erosion. There’s a difference between growing and abandoning what grounds you. The Constitution wasn’t written as a religious book, but it was written with moral spine. We’re losing that spine.”

Jack: (grimly) “You sound like a preacher tonight.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Someone has to be.”

Host: A pause. The city wind rose, scattering napkins, chill air, and the faint smell of rain. A church bell rang somewhere in the distance, drowned out by the hum of engines.

Jack: “You think our leaders are evil? All of them? You think every mayor or judge is ‘wicked’ just because they defy a few traditional norms?”

Jeeny: “Not wicked — lost. Power corrupts, Jack. Always has. Rome burned under Nero’s vanity. Germany fell under Hitler’s delusion. It’s not new. It’s just wearing modern clothes.”

Jack: “And yet, every tyrant thought they were righteous. Every crusade was led by men who claimed to know God’s will. You really want to mix divine certainty with politics?”

Jeeny: “No. But I want conscience. Without conscience, the Constitution is just ink on paper.”

Host: The light shifted, painting their faces in deep contrasts — the white glow of neon meeting the darkness of thought. The conversation deepened, like water darkening before a storm.

Jack: “You talk about conscience as if it’s universal. It’s not. What you call virtue, someone else calls oppression. That’s the curse of democracy — everyone believes they’re right.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe righteousness isn’t about who’s right. Maybe it’s about who’s willing to be wrong for the sake of what’s right.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “That’s poetic. But naive. The system rewards cunning, not humility.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But history remembers humility longer. Lincoln lost more elections than he won, yet he died remembered as a moral compass. Not for his power, but for his heart.”

Jack: “And he was killed for it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because truth always threatens those who build their empires on lies.”

Host: The wind howled, and a storm cloud crossed the moon, swallowing the last silver light. The temperature dropped, and with it, the tone of their voices.

Jack: “You talk as if God still governs nations. Maybe that’s the delusion. Maybe men were never meant to rule with divine authority. Every time they try, blood follows.”

Jeeny: “And every time they rule without it, greed follows.”

Host: The rain began, soft and sudden, drops pattering on the metal railing like tiny hammers of doubt. They didn’t move. The sound of thunder rolled low — a distant growl above the skyline.

Jack: “So what do you suggest? That we turn back the clock? Bring prayer back into schools, Bibles back into courtrooms, and laws that dictate morality?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying we bring character back into power. Not religion — reverence. Reverence for truth, for people, for the weight of leadership.”

Jack: “You can’t legislate reverence.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can live it. That’s where it starts. Every mayor, every governor, every judge was once a child taught by someone — a teacher, a mother, a community. We forgot to teach them what it means to be good.”

Host: Lightning flashed, turning their faces white for an instant, as if the sky itself demanded they stop arguing and listen. Jack looked down, the rain dripping from his hair, his voice quieter now, stripped of its armor.

Jack: “You think we can still fix it?”

Jeeny: “I think we must. If we stop believing that goodness has power, then the wicked already won.”

Host: The storm broke fully now — rain crashing around them, umbrellas flipping, distant thunder answering thunder. But neither moved to leave. Their words, like the rain, kept falling, cleansing, bruising, necessary.

Jack: “Wilkerson’s warning wasn’t new. Prophets have been saying it since the dawn of civilization — that men abandon their gods and fall into ruin. Maybe it’s just the cycle.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to break the cycle.”

Jack: “How?”

Jeeny: “By remembering that power is not the goal. Service is.”

Host: Her eyes glistened, not from rain, but from something deeper — a tear for what humanity could be, and what it had forgotten to become. Jack watched her, something inside him shifting, like iron softening under heat.

Jack: (softly) “You really think faith belongs in a world like this?”

Jeeny: “No. I think faith creates a world like this — the difference is what we put our faith in. Money, or mercy. Ambition, or accountability.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning to mist, the city lights blurring into a soft halo around them. The storm passed, but its memory hung in the air, like a prayer left unfinished.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the real ungodly leaders aren’t in government at all.”

Jeeny: (looking at him) “What do you mean?”

Jack: “Maybe it’s us. The ordinary people. Every time we look away, every time we choose comfort over conscience — we’re the ones leading the world astray.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re also the ones who can lead it back.”

Host: The rain ceased completely. A beam of moonlight broke through the clouds, spilling across the rooftop. It touched their faces — two silhouettes, weary but awakened, framed by a city still trembling from the storm.

Jack: “To conscience, then.”

Jeeny: “To the courage to keep it.”

Host: The camera pulls back — the city breathing, the moon rising, the sky washed clean. Below, a church bell tolls again, faint but steady.
And above it all, the echo of Wilkerson’s warning — not as a curse, but as a challenge — lingers in the night air like a flame that refuses to die.